These Sins
by Calculated Artificiality
Summary: A non-linear account of precisely why Cal has been acting the way that he has.  Things aren't easy, anyway.  They never have been.  "I won't be held responsible; she fell in love in the first place."
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is the only one of these you'll see throughout this story. _

_This story comes with a warning (several, actually). First, if you've read my stuff before, you'll not be used to this from me. Second, this story is non-linear. Third, and this is the most important one of all, read at your own risk (nothing's pretty)._

_Finally, I have taken liberties, and I won't apologize for them._

_This is an outpouring in the vein of "The Freshmen" by The Verve Pipe. The prefaces to each chapter are from that song._

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but the turmoil of my own soul. :D_

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* * *

_

**x x x**

_When I was young, I knew everything—_

_She a punk who rarely ever took advice_

**x x x**_  
_

_

* * *

_

Cal thought back to the day he first met Gillian. He had walked into her office at the Pentagon expecting some know-it-all woman in her late fifties ready to tell him to keep his mouth shut or else tell him he was crazy as though that was news he didn't already know.

What he hadn't expected was a young, beautiful woman with a definitive sparkle in her blue eyes—what he hadn't expected was Gillian Foster. The mischief she showed him that day was unmistakable.

Her hair pulled up into a simple ponytail made her face readily available and her beauty was the first thing that struck him.

He was married at the time; she was married at the time—and still something without a name passed between them. He had gone home to Zoe that night and she'd asked how it went. Cal had hesitated momentarily, deciding whether or not he should be honest with his wife and tell her that the psychologist he had been required to see wasn't at all what he expected.

Cal opted for truth with Zoe. In hindsight, it had probably been the wrong decision. She'd spent the next two hours picking countless fights with him. If he thought about it, he was certain that had been the moment that the seed that eventually grew roots and choked the life out of their marriage was planted.

He saw Gillian the next day—and the day after and the day after that. Cal knew there was more than what she was telling him, but he didn't push her for it. He could tell that there was something she wanted to say to him, but couldn't.

Cal read defiance in Gillian even back then. She wasn't supposed to be _warning_ him—but she did. In her own little way, she did. And when Cal poked at her and prodded at her, she didn't back down—she held her ground. Cal knew then that she could never be temporary in his life—she must be made permanent.

So, he'd asked her to be his partner on this crazy adventure, and he hadn't really even thought twice back then. Perhaps he should have. Despite some of the things that he'd seen and done in his life, not all of them wonderful (far from it, actually), and despite being proved wrong time and time again, he was so sure of himself. He was sure of his capabilities, his promise—and he didn't stop to think, back then, how he would contaminate Gillian.

Cal likes to believe that if he _had _thought of it, that he might never have asked her. Mostly, he knows that's just wishful thinking, because he's been a selfish bastard nearly his whole life—and if there are fleeting moments when he's not, it's simply a fluke. So, even if he had considered it, he probably still would have asked her.

Gillian, of course, said yes. Cal didn't know exactly how many people had cautioned her against it. How many people had told her she'd end up regretting it. He couldn't know that her own husband pleaded with her not to do it—But, Gillian was never one for backing down. If anything, these warnings—these pleas—only served to solidify her decision. Lightman's work interested her—and Gillian did things for herself, not for others. So, she'd said yes three days after Cal had asked her—and Alec didn't speak to her for six after that.

Cal didn't know anything beyond a "yes."

Still, Cal often thought about present-day Gillian in comparison to the Gillian of the past. She had changed—

She was tentative now, more cautious somehow. Cal knew he was responsible for the change, and if he had allowed himself, he could have hated himself for it. Instead, he poured himself a glass of scotch and thought of Gillian.

He leaned back in his chair, surrounded by photos of his daughter and souvenirs from his travels and thought of her—at her house, clad in her pajamas, her hair up in a ponytail reading a book by Anita Shreve or Patricia Gaffney, and his heart clenched inside his chest.

She had changed—over so many years, who doesn't? But Cal was wary of _why_ Gillian had changed, of the truth of it all.

As he felt the liquid burn his throat as he swallowed, he squeezed his eyes shut. He'd been watching her long enough and hard enough for so long that he was fairly certain of the reason, and a shudder ran through him—she had changed, yes. And, he worried, his greatest fear had come to fruition.

* * *

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

_I can't be held responsible,_

_She was touching her face—_

_I won't be held responsible;_

_She fell in love in the first place._

_**x x x**_

_**

* * *

**_

Cal Lightman stood in the hallway surrounded by everything he and his partner had spent nearly a decade of their lives producing. From where he stood, he could see the lab, empty for the late hour.

He could see the front desk, vacant save the faint glow of a computer screen.

In front of him, he saw everything he'd spent the decade trying to protect in his own peculiar way.

Gillian Foster stood before him, clad in a black dress, her hair falling softly around her face. She stood motionless, illuminated by the faint glow of the accidental night-lights of the Lightman building.

It was relatively dark, and there were shadows on her face, but he could still tell that her eyes were dark and her breathing was labored—he watched her diaphragm expand as she sucked in air.

Cal couldn't be sure—didn't want to be sure, really, but he was fairly certain that if the lights were on and he could see clearly, her blue eyes would be clouded with tears.

Cal felt his hands tingle as he took a tentative, fearful step forward. She had stopped talking and the silence surrounding them was nearly deafening.

"Come on, Foster," His voice was soft and quiet, but not gentle, "What's all this really about, eh?"

Cal watched as Gillian inhaled sharply—clearly slighted by his tone and more than likely by his dark gaze as well.

"This," She began, and Cal nearly winced at how tired her voice sounded, "is about _everything_." She finished, crossing her arms across her chest.

Cal nodded, pursing his lips. "Fair enough." He shifted his weight and felt a knot tie in his stomach, "But what is it mostly about, Foster?" He asked.

Cal would look back on this moment and realize that he didn't know, even then, quite why he was pushing her in this specific way. He was unsure of the urge—unconvinced of its rightness—but not brave enough to question it too seriously.

Gillian closed her eyes tightly, brought her hand up to her neck, and rolled her head backwards. Cal heard her expel her breath, and realized he was holding his.

"It's not about her." Gillian said, her voice falling off on the last syllable.

Cal held his tongue—_It is._

His eyebrows rose in an invitation for her to continue. Her head lolled forward a little bit, but she kept her hand on her neck. Cal couldn't tell, but she was squeezing her neck, applying light pressure near the base—her own brand of developed self-consolation.

"It's about being second best. Or third best." She said, her eyes fixing on something above his head. She couldn't look at him now, she wouldn't.

Cal smiled, but it wasn't from pleasure—it was from pure discomfort and it looked as awkward as it felt.

"No," He shook his head once, "That's not it, either."

On any other day he would have shut his mouth and gone home—he would have quipped, toyed, played, made light of the situation. But he was growing older—he was growing tired and fearful, and he was growing impatient.

Beyond that, signs that he needed to protect her were developing at an almost alarming rate.

Gillian's only response was a heavy sigh.

"Foster," He began, tentatively. He had the urge to close the distance between them—to get up in her face and read it. But he didn't. He held his ground, standing just as still as she was. "Is it…" He stopped, searching for the right phrase—"Are you," He tried again, "Is it jealousy?" He finished, finally.

Cal watched her face, but he saw no reaction—he heard no signs of deception in her voice when she said, finally, "No."

He felt an overwhelming sense of relief, then. So thorough was the relief that he nearly missed it, what she did next.

Standing in the middle of the hallway, Cal's stomach dropped as he watched Gillian display a particular manipulator. She had spoken the word with confidence, but her hand traveled upward and rested lightly on her own cheek.

Cal felt a sense of panic overtake him—and it mingled with a very specific sense of failure. He had been trying to protect her for nearly a decade. Not from her bastard of an ex-husband, not from Zoe's claws, not from any of the mundane and insignificant things in the outside world—he had been trying to protect her from himself.

Standing in the hallway, Cal felt a familiar sense of dread overtake him as he watched Gillian lightly caress the side of her face with her elegant fingers.

Cal longed to reach out and touch her—but he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and clenched his fists. He scrunched his shoulders up and tilted his head to the side before he spoke.

His words floated into the heavy air of the empty Lightman building, "I'm sorry." His tone left no qualms about just how he meant the sentiment—it was the end of a conversation they'd never even actually had.

Cal didn't wait for Gillian to respond—he didn't trust himself if he heard any words fall from her lips. So, instead, he turned and walked away from her.

He didn't miss, however, the first microexpression of hurt that crossed her face. But he steeled himself against it as his feet fell heavy along the corridor and he closed his eyes and pressed his lips together tightly until he finally made it outside.

Once there, he leaned against the building, gasping in the air desperately. His body felt hot and his limbs felt heavy and useless, as though they were attached loosely to his body by some sort of wet child's clay.

If only he hadn't seen the manipulator. He swore under his breath—_if only a lot of things_.

Shaking his head, he did his best to solidify himself against his own reaction.

Cal Lightman was a deception expert—but he was also a master liar. He was painfully adept at lying to himself, and so he closed his eyes and pressed his back into the wall behind him.

Feeling the cool concrete through the material of his shirt, Cal repeated the mantra until he began to regard it as truth—it wasn't his fault. He couldn't be held accountable for Gillian's reaction to the women—or in this instance, woman—in his life. He wasn't accountable for Gillian's reaction to _him_. He wouldn't be responsible—

Using the wall for leverage, Cal pushed his body away and into an upright position. Walking home, he felt the cool air on his face and he concentrated on feeling it go in his nostrils and travel deep down into his lungs, sustaining him even as he felt numb.

As he put his key in the lock and felt it turn and open onto an empty house shrouded in darkness, he shook his head—

_No_, he thought, _She fell in love in the first place_.

* * *

_To Be Continued._


	3. Chapter 3

_[She] took a week's worth of valium and slept—_

_Now he's guilt-stricken, sobbing with his head on the floor—_

_Thinks about her now and how he never really wept, he says:_

_I can't be held responsible—_

_

* * *

_

It was two years into their partnership and three years after they had first met that day at the Pentagon when he finally made the confession that had been weighing upon him since they began.

Gillian had often asked him _how_ he had come into the lie detection business. And he had done what he had always done—he'd lied to her. It took him ten years to finally tell Zoe about it, and when he finally did, it was in a drunken rage after they'd spent four hours hurling insults at one another. Keeping the truth from Gillian felt worse for some reason, like a more specific outright type of betrayal. Gillian was an open book—not just to him, really, but to anyone.

Cal thought it was both admirable and foolish of her.

It was their second suicide case. It paid nothing and The Lightman Group, fledgling as it was, had little room to take cases that didn't pay. By then, Gillian already knew about his obsession with suicide cases, though she didn't know the root. Cal suspected the psychologist in her had her guesses—but she never pushed and she never prodded. She never even really _asked_.

She recognized, though, his deep-seated need to find a reason for these suicides, and she knew enough by then to let him.

It was just before midnight on the day they'd solved the case—and while the particulars were nothing even remotely close to his own situation, Cal was still reeling. He and Zoe were on the outs, though still living together as practical strangers who occasionally had sex to forget they were hurting.

It was raining outside, and he stoically walked for ten miles until he got to Gillian's house. He had knocked tentatively on the door and she had answered clad in a powder blue bathrobe, sleep still hanging all over her. Alec was asleep and Gillian ushered Cal in and made him change into some dry sweats as she made him some tea, radiating warmth as she asked him nothing about his late night visit.

She handed him his tea and they just sat in silence for an hour as he sorted things out in his head. Gillian's face and posture remained incredibly open. Cal could tell she was tired as she leaned her head against her arm, but she didn't fall asleep or even shut her eyes. She just looked at him—she was radiating something that Cal didn't know how to read, something that he'd never been on the receiving end of before.

The grandfather clock she had in her house back then struck one, and it wasn't until then, after the echo of the chimes had dissipated, that he began to speak.

"She killed herself." He said, solemnly, looking at Gillian in the face.

He had begun, by then, to teach her to read faces. So, he knew that she saw with near clarity the sadness that pooled in his eyes and collected on his features.

Still, she didn't speak.

"My mother," he said, answering the question he knew she had.

He looked at her intently then, studying her, reading her. The truth was, if he had seen a trace of pity on her face that night, he would have gotten up and left. He would have walked right out the door, and he would have never told her a thing about it. He would have never spoken to her again about it. Cal knew that for an absolute fact.

The reality was that Cal had had enough pity the moment he got off the train from college—with everyone giving him looks that he didn't need to be an expert to read—they all said the same thing: _Poor Cal_.

Gillian's eyes didn't say that—Cal thought it remarkable then how they seemed to say, instead, _it's okay_.

He cleared his throat, "I was away at college." He smiled distantly, and it didn't reach his eyes, "I was at a party, actually, when I found out—that she'd…" He trailed off, afraid of being indelicate, but more afraid of being too delicate, of making gentle something that was not, "Swallowed a handful of pills—all different sorts." He said, his voice flat and heavy, his eyes still focused on hers.

"I was such a cad back then. I really was, cocky, annoyingly so—thought I knew every goddamn thing." He pressed his lips together in wan smile, "I thought I was invincible. And then…I got the call." He paused for a moment, almost reverent before he began again, "I hopped on the train, and it just felt like everyone _knew_, even strangers—that I'd…" He stopped himself, "That she'd… fucking killed herself."

Gillian's brows drew together, and she lifted her head off her arm, not shying away from the intensity of his gaze.

Cal's mouth was dry—"And everyone," he said, "Felt sorry for me. Everyone looked at me with such fucking pity," he scrunched his face up in disgust, "that I didn't—that I never—" his voice trailed off and he waved his hand in front of his face.

"Cried?" She said, supplying the word he couldn't bring himself to say.

He nodded his head in the affirmative, and she pursed her lips, her eyes still on him.

Cal was taken aback by the softness of her gaze, by its openness, and he ran his hands across his face, feeling suddenly haggard as emotion washed over him.

"It wasn't your fault." She said, "You're not responsible."

Cal was surprised to find that he didn't feel a flash of anger—he had heard that so many times from so many people, but there was something different about the way that Gillian said it. It was her tone, soothing and gentle—not affected and light as so many others had been. She wasn't hiding anything underneath the phrase—it wasn't for her; it was for him.

Cal had heard over and over and over again that it wasn't his fault—but it wasn't until he heard the words fall from Gillian Foster's lips that he actually began to accept it.

He rubbed his eyes, "I know." He said, his voice gravelly.

Gillian shook her head, "You don't." She said—her voice soft, "But you will." She assured, and he took his hands away from his eyes to see her smiling lightly at him.

Cal felt a wave of nausea pass over him and did his best to keep it at bay.

"And you _should_," She said, placing emphasis on the final word.

Cal furrowed his brow in confusion, trying to trace what she was talking about. His eyebrows rose slowly as realization set in, "Cry?"

She nodded and made a little sound in the affirmative—Cal let out a breath, and subconsciously shook his head.

Gillian smiled, she had long been fascinated by his science and here she was using it on him—she spoke gently, "You should." She said, and for the first time that evening, she reached out and touched his forearm, "It's okay." She said, her fingertips grazing his skin. It was a light touch—and brief. Almost as soon as he felt her feather-light touch on his skin, she withdrew it.

Cal opened his mouth to protest, but he stopped short when he saw her gaze—her face was so expressive and he read everything he'd never seen from anyone else. And so, in the comfort of Gillian's living room, with her husband sound asleep upstairs, Cal Lightman cried for his dead mother for the very first time.

The tears started out small—he felt embarrassed to feel them begin at all and tried to hold them in—

Gillian whispered, "It's okay, Cal."

And when he heard his name drop from Gillian's lips, the tears spilled over his eyes and they just kept coming until sobs wracked his body and he choked on the heaviness of them. Once he started, he couldn't stop—and he couldn't feel anything but his grief, pent up for years, it was finally set free and it began floating into the air where it seeped into the beige walls that surrounded him.

Then, he felt nothing but his grief and Gillian's arms around him as she climbed into the chair he was sitting in and pulled his body into hers. She squeezed his shoulders tightly with one hand and pulled his head to her chest with the other, as his torso rested in her lap.

She caressed his hair with her fingers and made no noise—no shushing sounds, no "I'm sorrys," came from her mouth. She just sat there, holding him as the tears fell down his cheeks.

And then he felt nothing but his own grief and _comfort_ as he lay there, allowing himself to be vulnerable; allowing himself this moment.

What that moment was, actually, was a mystery even for him—it's one of the most vivid of his life and yet one of the haziest, because somewhere along the line his life stopped being about him.

When Gillian held him through his tears that November night in her living room, something passed between them—an understanding, a trust, a bond—he didn't even really know what the hell to call it.

Looking back, he thinks that might have been the moment he decided he needed to protect her. He's not entirely sure, but it feels that way when he thinks about it.

She'd done something for him that no one else ever would—that no one else ever could, really—given him something that he'd needed for a very long time: his grief.

And he'd used it against her—"_Go mother someone else._" That had been personal and even as he spat it out at her, years later, the night they'd shared flashed in his mind and he'd immediately felt regret at using it against her—and he'd felt shame when, at his words, he watched her connect with that memory, too.

She'd given him something—_it's not your fault_—and he'd never forgotten it.

In return, he'd chosen to give her something—her happiness—and that meant, ironically, that they could never be more than friends.

That night, when he recalled it, was the night he'd fallen in love with her.

* * *

_TBC_


	4. Chapter 4

_We tried to wash our hands of all of this,_

_We never talk of our lack in relationships._

_**x x x**_

_**

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**_

That evening in the hallway did its best to seep into every perceivable crack in their relationship. Cal thought of it like sand, slowly creeping in to every place it could fit—anything that wasn't tightly sealed shut was affected and touched in a way that seemed to do irreparable harm on a day to day basis. The distance between them grew.

By the time Wallowski came into the picture, the sand had penetrated everything—every little thing between Cal and Gillian felt heavy and tainted and downright _dirty_. Every glaring flaw in their relationship was exemplified and the clockwork that was their partnership corroded and turned in on itself.

For her part, Gillian did her best to pretend that things were okay—she went back to being the wonderful person that she was, doing her best to help him in any way she could, in the way she thought best.

Cal, for his part, tried his damndest to push her away. His gaze was cold and unforgiving and he spat his term of endearment (_love_) at her like it was an insult and he threatened her with severing their relationship. He pretended not to see her wince at his words—

What he couldn't let show was the pain he felt constrict his heart when he watched Gillian's eyes widen and her lip begin to quiver—he steeled his face, controlling every muscle, making sure he didn't let anything slip.

For their part, together, Gillian and Cal tried to move on—they went with the ebb and flow of day to day life, new cases, new women, new everything—they tried to wash their hands of the stain that had somehow found its way onto the pair of them.

Cal sat awake in his bed at night recalling in a peculiar way how he had not been able to keep Gillian unsullied—he watched as she grew bitter before his eyes, and he hated himself for being the one to do that to her.

They tried to talk about it once, about the gaping _void_ that had situated itself between them since that night—she came to his office late one Wednesday night, wearing navy blue and her hair in a ponytail. She brought him a plate of cookies she had baked—peanut butter—and she set them on his desk, the glass sliding against his desk, smooth and frictionless.

They chatted briefly and for a moment it felt like old times—and then a sadness gripped Cal as her eyes turned dark and watery and her voice nearly broke as she broke the conversation wide open without so much as a warning.

"Are we ever going to get past this, Cal?" She'd said, and he saw the desperation in her face even as he heard it in her voice.

He smiled, his eyes betraying the truth, "Sure we are, love."

"What's happened between us?" She asked, and he cast his gaze downward, focusing on the pen on his desk instead of her blue eyes.

Gillian didn't understand—and Cal saw the confusion on her face as she asked the question, and he knew she deserved an answer, but he didn't have one to give. She was in pain, but he didn't have an appropriate answer that she wouldn't immediately toss out the window as irrelevant and absurd.

She bit her lip at his silence, and she nearly winced at the taste of the words, "I just want us back, Cal." Her voice was sad, "Back to normal—how we used to be."

Cal looked at her—"I want that too, love." His voice was gentle as he spoke the endearment, not insulting, and he couldn't know it but that alone, to Gillian, was a step in the right direction.

Gillian watched as something passed over Cal's face—

"What aren't you saying?" She asked, finally, her voice trembling as her arms crossed over her chest.

The litany of all the things he wasn't saying ran through Cal's mind—and he did his best to keep them off his face:

_That I love you. That I'm not good enough. That I'm sorry—That I can't do this, that I can't be what you want, what you need, what you deserve. It's not that I won't—it's that I can't. I don't have the capacity. That I'd only hurt you even more than I already am_. _That this is the only goddamned way and it's killing me, too._

Gillian saw his mask fall into place right after she saw a flash of something she couldn't define in his eyes.

The silence hung in between them and Cal saw Gillian trying to control her tears, and his hands tightened on the arms of his desk chair as he tried to control his own urge to go to her and hold her as she'd held him.

"Nothing." He gritted out, partially through his teeth and Gillian saw his sadness—she recoiled from it then, weary.

"You're a liar." She said, simply, and Cal marveled at how free from malice her words were as they fell upon him.

"Among other things." He said, and his lips pressed together.

"Oh, please." Gillian said, disgust making its way into her voice. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, for" She waved her hand in front of her, realizing she didn't know what he was feeling sorry for himself about, "For whatever."

He looked at her then.

"And don't," She said, her manicured nail pointing in his direction, "feel sorry for me." she finished, her determination evident even as her voice wavered.

The air was thick and she observed him one more time, the slight hunch of his shoulders, the way his eyebrows were drawn together—he was a study in sadness.

"Why can't we talk about it?" She asked, not allowing the desperation she felt to seep into her voice, "What is—or isn't—between us?"

Cal picked up his pen and twirled it, doing his best to feign nonchalance. He hadn't a clue how miserably he failed—

"Because it would change everything." He said, forcing a finality he didn't really feel. _And it wouldn't really change anything_.

Gillian's mouth formed a little 'o' as she looked at him, flashing anger, "Oh? Because it hasn't changed already?"

Cal nodded, "It has. But in the only direction that won't—" he stopped himself. He had been about to say _hurt you_, but he realized the absurdity of that.

"Won't what Cal?" Gillian said, unfolding her hands and placing them at her sides, "Won't _what_?"

Cal wouldn't look at her—couldn't if he was to retain his nerve—he shook his head, "Never mind."

Gillian let out a noise of frustration, "_Goddamnit, _Cal." She said as she spun on her heel and walked out of his office.

Cal listened to her heels beat a steady tattoo on the linoleum as she made her way down the hallway and out into the DC night.

The truth was that Cal didn't need to delineate his shortcomings for Foster—to recite chapter and verse precisely _why_ he was a bad bet—_she already knew_. Cal shuddered as he sat alone in his office, trying to calm the headache he felt ravaging his skull—she knew, _and she loved him anyway_.

He brought his fingers up to massage his temple, as his fingers worked slow circles, he recalled her face, soft and inviting, displaying every goddamn emotion, including the blind love she felt for him—she loved him, anyway—_he wouldn't let her_.

* * *

_TBC_


	5. Chapter 5

_For the life of me, I cannot remember_

_What made us think that we were wise _

_and we'd never compromise—_

**x x x **

**

* * *

**

It was a Tuesday. The building was tiny and cramped, but it was theirs—something they'd owned and bought and built together.

Cal didn't know—couldn't, of course, that Alec and Gillian had had one of their biggest fights that very morning, before she'd gone into the office. Alec, trying to move up at the State Department, had wanted her to go to some dinner so that he could show her off—

"Gillian," He'd said, his voice stern, "I _need_ you there. You're my _wife_."

"Yes, Alec, I am. But it's not my fundamental role in life—this is an important night for me."

"You mean for Cal." He'd sneered.

"I mean for _me_, Alec." She'd said, unable to control the hurt.

"Well, this is an important night for _me,_ Gillian." He'd spat out, anger everpresent in his words.

They'd gone round and round and it had ended up in a screaming match and the same tired accusations stemming from Alec's own insecurities as a husband.

It ended with Alec screaming at her, "Fine, Gillian, spend tonight with _him_." Before slamming the door shut behind him.

With shaking hands, Gillian applied her flawless makeup, slipped on her sophisticated dress and headed to The Lightman Group for first time. The building was dingy and there were water stains on the ceiling that would end up leaking in the winter filling up bucket after bucket with dingy water.

But it was summer, then, that very first day at the Lightman group, and a fresh coat of paint was on the walls, and her office was the size of her walk-in closet and Cal's was only slightly bigger. When she got to work that morning, still upset from her fight with Alec, Cal was waiting for her outside the building.

He'd handed her a key on a dainty key ring and smiled at her as he pulled her in for a hug.

"Well?" He said, grabbing her by the shoulders, "You ready?"

Gillian felt nervous as she bit her bottom lip and nodded her head.

Cal had grinned at her and arched an eyebrow, "You do the honors, love."

Gillian had to steady her hand as she fit the key into the lock. Her gaze never left Cal's as she turned the key to the left and they both smiled as they heard the lock click. Cal reached up next to her head and pushed the door open—"The Lightman Group," he'd said as he held the door open and waved his hand in front of him, "is officially open for business."

They'd spent the day making phone calls and organizing things and Alec had called Gillian's cell phone thirty times by the end of the day and he'd left nine messages that were increasingly angry and offensive—she deleted them all without getting past the harsh way he said her name at the beginning of each recording.

At the end of the day, Cal showed up at her office with a bottle of champagne and two glasses—they'd sat for hours that night, just talking. They talked about their hopes and fears for the company, who would be responsible for what side of the business, what sorts of cases they'd like to eventually be able to work on. They talked about the future—where they saw themselves in ten years.

"Helping people." Cal had said—and Gillian looked at him softly as he shrugged, "It's what I want to do, really. It's why I started this whole thing." Gillian recognized the sadness in his eyes, and she did her best to comfort him with a look.

"Happy." Gillian had said. Cal laughed at that—it was so very simple an answer, and yet so very complicated. Precisely like Gillian, actually. Cal had asked her about it then—teased her, really, as he was prone to do.

She simply smiled and shook her head, "It's really all I've ever wanted to be." She'd said, and then she'd folded her hands in front of her.

"And you're not now?" He'd asked, concern covering his face.

She kicked off her shoes and crossed her legs as she contemplated her question. Gillian took in her surroundings—the walls that seemed to close in on her, the thin walls and even thinner doors, and then she looked at Cal and she laughed slightly, "You know, I am." She said, flashing him a brilliant smile. Her eyes crinkled at the sides, and Cal returned her smile with equal fervor and sincerity.

It was a smile and a moment Cal still dreamt about.

Now, years later, however, the memory of that day actually rather haunts him if he spends too much time analyzing it, as he is prone by nature and training to do.

He lies awake in bed recounting that first day—how busy and flustered they both were. How nervous and excited they were as they opened their door for the very first time. And he thinks about that conversation sitting in Foster's very first office as a partner in The Lightman Group.

They'd sipped champagne and he had seen her at ease and carefree.

Back then, and this was the worst part of it all, they had been so idealistic and hopeful—the both of them. Even he, a self-proclaimed pessimist who worked hard at it, had been hopeful and honest that night as he looked at Gillian sitting at her cramped desk, her hair falling softly around her face.

Cal laid in bed at night squeezing his eyes shut tightly trying to drown out the sickly sweet memory turned bitter of that particular evening.

He and Gillian both seemed so far now, nearly ten years later, from the people they had been back then.

She'd lost a child, a husband, and a best friend—and sure, only one of those was really his fault, but they all felt as though they were somehow directly related in the grand scheme of things.

And things, well, they hadn't turned out like he'd wanted them to. Try as he might, he couldn't escape the implications that night held for the past, future, and certainly for the present in which he found himself completely at a loss—in every sense of the word.

Back then things had seemed so simple, easy, and pure. In reality, he knew they weren't any of those things—they were muddled and unclear from the beginning. He wracked his brain for hours trying to figure out the difference, and the only thing he could come up with was _hope_.

They'd had so much blind hope back then—and Cal couldn't stand himself when he thought of how Gillian had come to lose even the slightest bit of hers.

That night, they'd considered each other—they'd regarded each other for hours, and they'd made the rules that summer evening, a fine sheen of sweat settling over them.

_We see things others can't_. She'd said, then. And he watched her face and saw—well, he saw nearly everything there and he'd tilted his head to the right.

He'd agreed—and they'd decided that there had to be some sort of boundary between them, some sort of _something_ so that they didn't go crazy reading each other. Cal had laughed and had agreed wholeheartedly with the idea, thinking what a brilliant albeit novel idea it was.

Back then, they'd put their faith in this boundary; they'd put their faith in each other.

For her part, Gillian had trusted him to observe the boundary—she'd trusted him, period. What's more, he'd trusted himself to abide by it back then.

Somewhere along the line, he'd slipped. It'd started by toeing the line—just to see. It only progressed from there until they ended up in the hallway of the new Lightman Group Building –big and miles and miles away from the one in which they'd started. The boundary was so blurry—who and what they'd become, separately and together were both so blurry that he could no longer distinguish it.

And he had to live with what he'd become—with what they'd become—she did, too, of course, but mostly he did.

It was November—three days before that incident in the hallway that it struck him. He was lying on his back, his arms cradling his head when he realized that they'd compromised _every damn thing_ they talked about that first summer day.

* * *

_TBC_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Warning: This chapter deals with rather sensitive subject matter._

_

* * *

_**x x x**_  
_

_Now I'm guilt-stricken, sobbing, with my head on the floor_

_Stop a baby's breath, and a shoe full of rice_

**x x x**

**

* * *

**

Gillian showed up on Cal's doorstep in the middle of the night, shivering as February hurled snow upon the city.

Cal had answered the door in his boxers and a white t-shirt, his hair rumpled and his eyes sleepy. He hadn't been expecting Gillian. He'd been expecting Zoe, actually. They'd been fighting regularly by that point, and he could feel their marriage slipping right through each of their hands and he did everything he could to care.

Emily was asleep upstairs.

Cal immediately knew something was wrong—Gillian coming to him in the middle of the night was unusual in any circumstance, clad in her pajamas and still wearing her slippers. Her face was etched with worry and something much graver than that as Cal invited her in.

Her voice was meeker than he'd heard it—well, ever, as she spoke, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She said, and he had to strain to hear it. "I'm sorry," She said again, clearing her throat, "Didn't know where else to go." She sounded tired.

Cal shut the door behind her as she walked in, her steps slow and measured, almost robotic—and Cal whispered "It's alright love, you're always welcome here." He'd lied. Zoe held a particular sort of disdain for Gillian.

Gillian stopped in the middle of the living room, Cal thought it seemed as though her feet had grown roots—as though she were unable to move entirely, "Zoe—" She started.

Cal clicked the lock of the door and turned around—he couldn't see her face because her back was to him, but her body language was decidedly sullen, "She's gone." He said, stepping closer to her, "We had a row. She's at her mum's." He finished and walked in front of her.

She seemed to notice his presence but didn't move—and Cal studied her face which was remarkably blank. His mind searched for anything that would bring her to his house at such a late hour. His mind went to Alec—had they had a fight? Cal chastised himself for the slight bit of joy he felt at the thought. The joy derived not from the thought that he and his wife were not alone in their marital troubles—rather, it stemmed from the possibility that Gillian had been fighting with Alec. Plain and simple. Cal had come to understand and wrestle with his own feelings a long time ago.

With a start, Gillian walked wordlessly over to his couch and sat down. Cal was worried then and he felt a specific sense of panic because he was unable to read her face.

The concern he felt moved him in front of her and he crouched down and reached a hand out to touch her knee—she recoiled and Cal moved his hand immediately. "What is it, love?" He'd asked.

Gillian shook her head. Cal tilted his head to the side and pursed his lips. He considered trying to touch her again, but thought against it. He was actually rather hurt that she'd pulled away from his touch—she'd never done that before—but his worry for her trumped that and he let it crease his brow. She wouldn't meet his eyes; instead she stared off into the distance and blinked a few times. Despite his current inability to read her, Cal still studied her face and then his eyes glanced down to her feet. "Darling." He said, his voice gentle, "We've got to take your slippers off, yeah?"

Gillian's eyes darted to her feet and then back to the point on the wall. She nodded almost imperceptibly and Cal reached for her feet. Gently, he took the left one in his hand and slid the soaked slipper off of her foot—she jumped when his hand touched the skin on her foot as though he'd burned her, and Cal watched her wince and a feeling of dread swept through him. Tossing the slipper to the side, he picked up her right foot and took particular care not to touch her skin as he took the slipper off and placed it with the other one.

Gillian buried her toes in the carpet and Cal considered getting socks for her, but she drew her eyebrows together and he read her for the first time that evening. She still didn't look at him, but he remained crouched on the floor at her feet, looking up at her with worried, searching eyes.

"What is it, love?" He repeated his question, emphasizing the first word. His voice was gentle and imploring, "Tell me."

Gillian shook her head again, and then cleared her throat. Finally, she looked at him, and Cal was surprised to see that her eyes gave absolutely nothing away. That was unusual for her—she was usually an open book. Glancing away again, she opened her mouth to speak.

The words wouldn't come. She closed her mouth and Cal watched as her hands gripped the cushions of the couch and her knuckles turned white.

"Darling?" He said again, and he had to stop his hand from reaching out to touch her.

Gillian tried to speak again—her voice came out, "I can't—" Her voice was terse—she said, "I'm not—" She wrinkled her brow, but her voice did not break, "It's—" Cal watched as her right hand left the couch and went to her abdomen. Suddenly, Cal knew _exactly_ what had brought her to his house that evening, and he felt a deep melancholy mixed with anger sweep through his veins.

Gillian had been pregnant. She and Alec had been trying to have a baby and she'd finally gotten pregnant—she was three months along and glowing and beautiful and so _happy_.

Cal rocked back on his heels, still in the crouching position as he searched for the words to say. It crossed his mind briefly that it was incredible how much he wanted to touch her. In the end, he kept his hands resting on his knees even as the feeling began to seep out of his feet—"Gillian." He settled on the word, and put everything he felt into it, knowing that she would read it.

She looked at him then and pursed her lips, "Alec left." She said, simply, her voice sounded hollow, "Said he couldn't handle it, that he'd be back tomorrow." Cal felt anger course through him at that—of course Alec left, of course he did, "I aborted my baby."

Cal couldn't contain his shock—he hadn't been expecting to hear that. Gillian didn't look at him, and her voice seemed even more distant as she spoke, "We found out last week—he had Anencephaly," Gillian's gaze flickered to Cal who wrinkled his brow, silently asking for more information, "He would've been born without a forebrain." She explained with a clinical detachment that she didn't really feel, "If he wasn't stillborn, he would've been blind, deaf and unconscious," she explained, and then she took a deep breath and Cal watched as the mood in her eyes changed. On her exhalation, she began to speak again, "I went to the clinic today, Cal," Her voice grew quiet, "I sat up there in that chair, with my legs spread, my feet in those stirrups as they took my baby out of me. And it _hurt_, God, everything hurt _so much_—Every time they put something else inside me, it hurt." Gillian fixed her eyes on the wall and blinked several times, then cast her eyes downward and to the left pausing—Cal recognized that she was connecting with a memory, and he watched several emotions flicker over her face.

Inhaling quietly, she continued with a specific type of quiet desperation, "And the sounds were everywhere—God, Cal, the sound of what they were doing to me—to _us_—hurt; I can't get the noises out of my head, they just filled up the room and bounced off the walls and I swear to God, Cal, they went right into my heart. I had to watch; I couldn't look away—I just stared as they all looked at me with this _pity_. I could see it in the doctor's face, even though he was wearing one of those stupid masks and those goggles—" She exhaled, "and everyone in the waiting room looked at me with _disgust_." She finished.

Cal waited for her to continue. When she didn't, he said, "Alec didn't go with you." It wasn't a question and he couldn't keep the anger out of his voice as much as he tried.

"No," She confirmed, "He didn't." She didn't elaborate on where he'd been. Cal knew it wasn't anywhere that could be excused—it was nowhere more important.

Cal wondered briefly why she hadn't asked him to go with her. Why she didn't even _tell _him about it. Gillian should have had someone there—holding her hand, driving her away, tucking her into bed, smoothing her hair out of her eyes. Instead, she did it by herself.

In truth, Cal had so many questions—so many platitudes and comforts he wanted to offer her. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was, how he hated her husband, how angry he was. He wanted to hold her. But he didn't do any of it—Gillian already knew.

Instead he placed his palms up and whispered, "You had no choice, Gillian—you're not responsible."

Gillian reached her hand up and touched her own cheek softly before returning her hand to the couch—she furrowed her brow at him—"I'm _so_ sad, Cal," She said, shrugging her shoulders a little bit.

"I know you are, love," He said—and the subtext was clear. _I am, too_.

She shook her head, "No." Cal turned his head in confusion, not understanding the utterance, "I'm _so _sad, but—" She trailed off and Cal registered disgust as it flitted across her face, "But I can't cry." She looked at him hard, then, her blue eyes tired, "I've lost my baby, I had_ my baby _ripped out of me by some doctor today, and he's at home with his two daughters—and I can't even fucking cry."

Cal understood then, the disgust. And he wanted desperately to give her the comfort he had building up inside of him. He wanted to commiserate with her, to tell her that it was understandable, that she'd been through a lot—that maybe she would cry later.

Gillian had made a tough decision, she'd done it alone—and she couldn't cry for the loss.

So, Cal sat down on the floor and he looked at Gillian, her tiny body taking up little space on his couch, her right hand still pressed to her abdomen, her left hand still lightly gripping the couch cushion.

Cal thought of how much she had wanted a child—how excited she had been when she came into his office with a bottle of sparkling cider and announced with a huge smile, crinkles around her eyes, "I'm pregnant!" and he'd hugged her and spun her around once and then they'd toasted. Their glasses clinked and they drank and tossed around names, ("Bartholomew if it's a boy, Henrietta if it's a girl" he'd jokingly suggested, and she'd rolled her sparkling blue eyes and laughed at him.). He'd pulled her into a tight hug which she returned and he'd smiled down at her, kissed her forehead and whispered softly, "I'm _so _happy for you, love."

Cal thought of Gillian sitting in the waiting room of the clinic. He thought of how nervous, sad and guilt-ridden she must have been. He thought of her sitting up in that chair, her legs spread as hands pushed and prodded inside her, as the instruments invaded her womb until they finally expelled the child she'd spent her entire life waiting for.

Cal thought of the pain rippling through her body—before, during and after. He imagined the cramps she'd had on the ride home. He imagined her bleeding and sitting alone in her living room surrounded by all the things she'd begun to collect for the baby.

Cal thought of Alec not showing up to hold her hand and experience and grieve with her. Cal thought of Alec walking out the door going somewhere, anywhere that wasn't next to his beautiful distraught wife in bed.

And Cal thought of Gillian sitting on his couch, her brown hair falling to her shoulders as she felt the weight of her impossible body sinking into the cushions—he thought of her recoiling from his touch—twice. Cal felt the carpet underneath him as he rested his back against the coffee table—he thought of Gillian disgusted with herself because she could not cry for her baby—

So, inhaling sharply, Cal pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping them with his arms. He didn't speak to her, he didn't try again to reach out and touch her—he cried for her, instead.

They sat there, not touching, Gillian stoically watching as Cal's body was wracked with sobs, until they finally subsided. Then they sat there until the sun began to rise, neither speaking, neither touching, neither moving.

* * *

_TBC_


	7. Chapter 7

_We fell through the ice, _

_When we tried not to slip, we'd say it:_

_Can't be held responsible…_

**x x x**

**

* * *

**

It was a week after Cal antagonized Gillian quite nearly to her proverbial breaking point. She had stood in front of him, angry. He'd pushed all the right buttons—and he'd meant to walk away from her without looking back, but he failed and instead caught a glimpse of her retreating form, her slender legs carrying her down the hallway and away from him.

They were sitting at a restaurant, a cheap little dive they'd both learned to love because of its late hours. They'd just finished a case, and had happened upon each other there, by chance.

Gillian sat across the table from Cal, her legs elegantly crossed over one another as she considered the menu in front of her. The wash of her jeans was dark and her brown sweater made a surprisingly lovely contrast with her blue eyes.

Cal looked at his menu, but he didn't really read it. Instead, he thought of Gillian—of all the courses they'd taken that had brought them to that very moment.

There had been a time—and he winced to understand that he struggled now to recall it—when the silence between them had been comfortable if lightly charged. Now, there were times it felt downright venomous.

Gillian's voice broke him from his reverie, "Cal, we don't have to do this."

He looked up to find her menu flat on the table, her hands crossed primly over the top of it, her eyes regarding him cautiously. Cal's stomach turned as he registered the resigned tone of her voice.

"Yes, we do." He said, shrugging his shoulders.

She sighed and shook her head—"You know, we really don't." She grabbed her purse by the straps and began to stand up—his voice was the only thing that stopped her.

"Gillian." Was all he said. But, then, that's all it took. His voice reminded her of a winter night many years ago—the tenor of which changed many, many things between them.

Refusing to look at him, she sat down, relinquished her hold on the purse, and wordlessly picked up her menu.

When the waiter came, Cal resisted the urge to order for her as he always had in the past. Instead, he ordered for himself and passed the menu to the waiter, keeping his eyes on the melting ice in his glass of water.

He watched a bead of sweat trickle down the yellow glass and pool on the dark wood of the table—in doing so, he missed the pained expression that crossed Gillian's face as she ordered the same thing she did every time she came to the restaurant. She tensed as she saw that even the waiter saw her reaction—

She bit her lip—the waiter could tell. Not the truth of it, but something.

Cal reached his finger out and touched the drop of water—he prodded at it and tried to ignore the heaviness he felt in the air around him, threatening to suffocate him.

Gillian leaned back in the booth and crossed her arms in front of her chest. It was a defensive posture, and she adopted it knowingly.

Cal finally met her gaze, and when he did, he felt the vice that had latched itself onto his heart tighten. If he was conflicted, he didn't let it show, his face was remarkably blank as he considered the woman across from him. His eyes flicked to her arms crossed in front of her chest, and then back to her face, taking into account the way her muscles weren't at rest.

"Relax, Foster." He said, running a hand over his face, "I'm not going to attack."

She scoffed then, and her voice came through with an air of affected disdain she didn't actually know how to feel, "Well." Her hand gripped the side of her arm, "I never can tell these days."

Cal reeled from her meaning as a wave of guilt rushed over him. He nearly let his shame slip onto his face, but he kept it out at the last minute by smiling awkwardly.

"Yeah, well," He said, bracing his hands on the table in front of him, "You know me."

Gillian uncrossed her arms and let them rest at her side as regarded him with cool eyes, "Yes," She replied, "I do."

Cal looked at her, her hair swept back from her face, her delicate earrings dangling from her perfect ears, and his stomach lurched.

It was all too much—the last few weeks, the last few years, the last few seconds; it was all too goddamn much. Cal planted his feet firmly on the floor and raised his eyebrows—his fingers splayed across the table. He was asking a silent question. _What do you want from me_?

Gillian sighed—"I don't know."

Cal pushed himself back from the table and rested his head on the red material behind him. He knew the answer and it was the one thing he couldn't give her.

So, Cal just sat there—they both just sat there in silence, watching as people came in and out of the little hole in the wall, some of them staying, some of them going. The laughter wafted through the air as thick as the scent of grease emanating from the dirty kitchen and Cal was nearly sickened by it.

Two lovers sat in the corner, their legs entwined as they held on to each other, staring into each other's eyes intently. Cal saw Gillian watching them and she turned her unwavering eyes to his. She raised an eyebrow, and he took a moment to marvel at how little words needed to actually pass between them—

_Was it like that with her?_

And no, it wasn't. It couldn't be, not for Cal. He'd made his mind up years ago—that night he felt helpless and comforted in Gillian Foster's house. But, instead of answering, instead of telling the truth and confessing everything, he made his face absolutely blank, allowing her to draw her own conclusions and knowing full well precisely what conclusions she would draw. He was treading on thin ice—and everything he said, or didn't say threatened to provide the necessary pressure for the ice to crack.

Cal didn't miss it this time—the look that passed over Gillian's face. He saw her eyebrows raise and draw together and her mouth open slightly as the wind rushed out of her.

Cal felt a wave of nausea overcome him as he saw her react. They ate in silence—Gillian actually just pushed her food around her plate, and when the young waiter came to box their food up, his grey eyes were sad as he pushed the remains of her food into the Styrofoam container.

Cal boxed up his own food and stood. He made his way over to the coat rack near the front of the door and snatched his coat up, Gillian following suit. Sighing, he put it on and opened the door for her. She walked through it, careful to make sure her body didn't come into any contact with his.

Cal registered the gesture and tried not to take offense—this was his doing; this was his plan.

They walked to their cars in silence—the hum of the city wrapping itself around them as the cold air caressed their faces. Gillian's heels clicked lightly and Cal smiled in the darkness—the sound of Gillian always comforted him. By the time they made it to the parking lot, Gillian's cheeks were flushed pink. She held the box of food in one hand while she adjusted her camel colored scarf with the other. She sniffled slightly, the cold taking its toll on her sinuses.

Cal ached to reach out and run his finger over her cheek—but instead he fished his keys out of his pocket.

Gillian shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she watched Cal busy himself with his keys.

She watched as he unlocked his driver's side door and turned hesitantly to regard her. His hazel eyes were glassy from the cold, and he pursed his lips together and squinted his eyes slightly.

Gillian's voice was quiet, "Where do we go from here?" She asked, and Cal saw something flash in her eyes. Her words floated up into the blackness of the DC night air and she wasn't quite sure where they landed because she watched Cal's steady hand pull the door handle on his car and swing the door open, glancing away from her and looking to the interior of his vehicle.

Poising himself to get into the car, Cal shrugged, "Home," he said simply, and then without looking at Gillian, he slid into the driver's seat and closed the door.

Gillian bit her lip and clutched her scarf tightly when she heard the sound of his car coming to life. The gravel in the parking lot sputtered beneath the wheels as Cal's car lurched forward. She watched as he pulled out of the driveway, and she kept staring until she could no longer discern which taillights in the distance belonged to him.

When he was gone, she unlocked her car and slid into it, closing the door and locking it. She put her key in the ignition and turned it, hard. The car began to start, and she put her fingers in front of the vents, feeling the heat bring the life back into her fingers.

She pushed the brake down, but didn't put the car into drive; instead, she sat there, staring at the restaurant, its red brick and dingy mortar taunting her. She couldn't be sure how long, exactly, she stayed there, but she didn't put her car into drive until the sign for the restaurant flicked off. Only then did she head to her empty apartment.

Cal watched out of his rearview mirror as Gillian's form became more and more distorted, until he could no longer see it. When he couldn't, he gripped the steering wheel even harder, his knuckles whitening as he tried to keep his gaze on the road.

That night, in bed, he didn't sleep. Across town, Gillian Foster sank into a bathtub with the lights off before she crawled into bed and pulled the covers over her form. She lay awake for an hour before sleep finally overtook her.

And still, Cal sat awake, his hands stiffly at his sides. He kept reminding himself _why_ he was doing what he was doing—every time he saw Gillian's pain it got harder and harder for him to remember. He considered making a list of all the ways allowing her to keep loving him would only hurt her more—but, he didn't. He just kept the recitation going.

Finally, just before dawn, he drifted off to sleep. He dreamt of a pond, coated with a particularly thick layer of ice—thinner, though, in some parts. By the time he woke up, he had nearly forgotten everything from it but the cold. But his not remembering didn't change the details: he and Gillian had still been standing in the middle of that pond—and the sound of the ice cracking had still been so deafening. When he woke up and felt the hot water cascade over his tired skin, his ears still rang.

* * *

_TBC_


	8. Chapter 8

x x x

_My best friend took a week's vacation to forget her_

x x x

* * *

It was a Saturday in spring when Zoe left Cal. Gillian got a call at three thirty in the morning—she heard the shrill ringing of her phone and her hand reached out in the dark and picked up the phone—

Alec sighed heavily as she mumbled "Hello?" into the phone.

"She's gone." Cal's tone made Gillian sit straight up in bed. She clutched the sheets to her chest, and listened to Cal's unsteady breathing before he finally slurred, "Zoe. She left me."

Gillian hung up the phone and crawled out of bed—Alec reached for her, his hand brushed her arm as she pulled her jeans over her hips—

"Seriously?" He asked, dragging his head up from his pillow to look at her.

Gillian buttoned her jeans and zipped her fly—she didn't turn to look at Alec—she shrugged.

"It's three thirty in the fucking morning." Alec said, turning his head to the side and smashing a pillow over his face.

Gillian pulled a sweatshirt on and grabbed her keys—"Thank you, Alec," She said, her voice soft, "I know how to tell time." She said, as she exited the bedroom and closed the door behind her.

When she got to Cal's she found him slumped against the door—she had to push it as hard as she could to get in—the whole house smelled like alcohol, and there were bits of broken glass in places—

"She just fucking left." He said—over and over again until he was whispering it, and Gillian was stroking her hand through his hair.

She poured him into bed with minimal assistance on his part—and then she went downstairs and swept the broken glass into a dustpan, cleaned the spilled alcohol off the floor and washed the rags she soaked cleaning up Cal's mess. Then, Gillian quietly went back upstairs—she sat on the edge of his bed until he woke up in the morning—he ushered her out, not looking her in the eye, saying he would be fine—he'd call if he needed anything.

Gillian didn't hear from Cal for four days after that—

She hardly slept, and when she did, she'd dream that he had died. In one dream, he drowned, in a lake somewhere; in one he was stabbed, in yet another he was in a car accident. In her slumber, Gillian watched in horror as the life drained out of him in what felt like a thousand different ways per night. And in each dream, Gillian had to tell Emily, fourteen and fragile and so in love with her father that he'd died.

He called her at three in the morning on the fifth day—

"Gillian." He said into the phone, his voice thick.

"Where are you?" She asked.

"Boston." He'd said—"Where Zo and I started." He'd explained—and he didn't know where his car was and he didn't have any money—

Alec pressed his back into the bed and stared straight up at the ceiling as she tried to explain to him.

"Just fucking go, Gillian." He'd said, speaking through clenched teeth.

"Alec…" She'd said.

Alec folded his hands behind his head and didn't look at her—"Doesn't matter what I say, Gillian, you and I both know you'll go to him." He'd said.

Gillian sighed, "He's my _friend_," She said, slipping her shoes on.

Alec clenched his jaw—"And _I'm_ your _husband_." He'd said, before pressing his eyes together.

Gillian sighed—and when she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, she flinched when he pulled his cheek away.

But she got in the car and drove 8 hours to Boston—she got there at noon and found Cal in some dive bar—she slid into the booth next to him.

"S'where we met," He said, his glassy eyes looking around the bar. "She beat me in pool right at that table," He said, pointing with the neck of his beer bottle toward a dingy pool table in the corner. Gillian turned to look at it—the felt was obviously ripped—"She was so beautiful." He said—then, he looked down at the table—"She left me." He said, his voice quiet.

Gillian tilted her head to look at him—"I know."

Cal sighed and directed his gaze to his beer bottle—"Am I ever gonna forget?" He asked.

Gillian reached her hand out to touch the back of his, which was palm down on the table—she wanted to tell him _yes_, _soon_—but she'd learned the truth from him—and even if his reading skills were impaired, she wouldn't lie to him—couldn't lie to him—"I don't know." She said, rubbing his hand gently.

Cal startled slightly, before staring at her hand—"Your hand's cold." He said, looking at Gillian's index finger—"Your hands are always so cold." He said again, almost reverently—then he turned his hand over so that their palms were touching. Finally, he brought his gaze to her eyes—"You're here." He said, as if he just now recognized it.

Gillian nodded and offered him a small smile, "I am."

She checked them into a hotel room and slept with her back pressed right up against Cal's until she felt well enough to drive—

When she dropped him off at his doorstep, he looked at her—"Thank you." He said, casting his glance downward.

"Welcome." She said, as he went inside. She sat outside of his house for an hour—watching—waiting—_just in case_, she told herself. And then she went home to her own house which also happened to be empty—

Alec didn't come home until three hours later, and when he finally did, he said nothing to her except "You're home," before he headed upstairs and into the study.

When he had gone and she was by herself again, Gillian pressed her back into the couch and shut her eyes tightly—"So I am." She whispered, clutching a pillow to her chest.

They never talked about that day again—they never talked about the silent drive home, about what it felt like to feel each other's body heat in the same bed for the very first time. They never talked about what Cal had done for those four days or about the way Alec had slept on the couch the night Gillian returned and eighteen consecutive nights after that.

And they never talked about what that night said about both of them—together and apart.

* * *

_TBC_


	9. Chapter 9

x x x

_We were only Freshmen._

x x x

* * *

Gillian cried the night Alec left for good. She followed his departure to the window and watched him walk down the path, she held the thin fabric of the curtains delicately between her thumb and forefinger. She watched as his car pulled out of the driveway.

Four hours later, she was certain he had meant what he'd said and that he wouldn't be back. She sat down on their couch—her couch now—pulled her knees to her chest and sobbed into her pajama pants as the finality of it all finally hit her.

She cried for a solid hour that night—not because she missed him or their marriage and not even because she loved him—because by that point in their relationship, she didn't love him too terribly much.

Instead, Gillian cried a little bit for the time that she'd lost—for the effort and years put into a marriage that ultimately could not be salvaged no matter how many counselors they saw.

As she clutched her knees, she recalled the last session they'd had—

After forty-five minutes of discussing their issues and trying to deal with the blame they each felt, separately and together, Gillian had swallowed and looked at him—

"You're not the same." She'd said, her voice quiet, her eyes searching Alec's for the boy she used to know. The one that didn't keep secrets from her; the boy who didn't lie to anyone, and especially not to her. The boy who didn't have an indifferent bone in his body when it came to her.

Alec had scoffed—"Oh, and you _are_, Gillian?" His voice held an accusatory tone, his eyes narrow slits as he watched her from behind his glasses.

"I didn't mean…" She faltered, "That's not what I meant." Alec looked at her. "I _have_—we _both_ have." She said as she choked back a sob as the tears invaded her eyes, the weight of them coating her voice with an unnecessary thickness.

Alec looked away as one snaked down her cheek—he focused on the therapist, and Gillian tuned the voices out for the rest of the session, her heart and mind only able to process one thing: Alec hadn't touched her, hadn't reached out to her—and the rift between them cemented itself there, surrounded by lilac walls and the lilting voice of a woman in her sixties wearing dark-rimmed glasses and a serious expression, nodding her head and knitting her brow.

Gillian listened for the sound of something in that office—the sound of anything—but all she heard was the echo of the people they used to be. And all she saw was a husband she didn't seem to know anymore.

A month later had her sitting alone in her house surrounded by yellow hues and a photo of she and Alec on their first date.

She hardly thought of him anymore as that boy she'd fallen in love with so many years ago, but as she listened to the steady hum of her appliances and her own heart beating a steady rhythm in her chest, she allowed her memory to drift back.

Gillian had met Alec her very first day of college. Five years older than she, he was her resident director.

He had an air of authority and unwavering kindness about him that attracted her to him from the start as she watched him casually pick up her boxes and set them down on the floor in her room on moving day.

One night at a hall pizza party, she watched him from across the room, gregarious and demonstrative in his speech and she just _knew_ that she would fall in love with him.

What she didn't know—couldn't, of course—is how far away from that man he would end up years later; how far they would come and how far they'd drift apart.

She shuddered and wiped the tears from her eyes, and then ascended the stairs, slipped under her covers and had the first sound sleep in months.

She went to work the next day and the day after and every subsequent day after that—not because she was particularly sad, but because they were busy.

If Cal noticed a change in her demeanor, he didn't say anything. But she felt his gaze on her more frequently than ever and she knew he had questions.

She would have let him ask them if she had any confidence that she'd be able to answer. Instead, she tip-toed around his pointed looks and didn't crumble under the weight of his heavy gaze until one night in her office, the sting of a rough day hitting both of them particularly hard, she'd just gotten off the phone with Alec—

He said enough, and the look in his eyes said volumes about things she didn't have the strength to think about at that precise moment—she felt on the verge; she saw him dangling there with her until he finally walked out of the room—

As she sank into the loneliness that was slowly becoming the norm for her she wondered if, just then, a chance had passed—

Sighing, she pushed her back into her desk chair and turned Cal over in her mind as she absent-mindedly brought the back of her hand to her face—caressing her own cheek, her feet firmly planted on the floor, a seed she couldn't quite define settled itself into her stomach.

* * *

_TBC_


	10. Chapter 10

**x x x**

_For the life of me, _

_I cannot believe _

_We'd ever die for these sins._

**x x x**_  
_

It was an idle Tuesday that Cal had almost died. If the bullet had been a quarter of an inch this way or that—if a doctor hadn't been nearby, if an ambulance hadn't been right around the corner—if a lot of things.

And Gillian had seen it all. Cal had been watching her face the entire time, even as he felt the bullet rip through layers of his flesh, one by one, his eyes had stayed on her face and he'd watched as several emotions—horror, disbelief, sadness, fear—manifested themselves on her delicate features.

She had ridden with him to the hospital, but she hadn't touched him at all on the fifteen minute ride there, and Cal felt the absence as the seconds ticked by. Cal squeezed his eyes shut, knowing that she'd think it was because of the pain. It wasn't pain, though. Cal clenched his teeth together hard to avoid asking for her touch. He was too wrapped up in his own emotional turmoil to be able to accurately discern from her face and body language whether or not she actually wanted to give it—and Cal knew he'd already taken too much from her without her willing consent.

So he gritted his teeth, shut his eyes and gripped the sides of the gurney. He imagined her soft palm on his cheek, her fingers caressing his hair—her lips on his hairline—the warmth of her touch, he thought, would heal him.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Gillian's hands folded neatly in her lap, worry creasing her brow. He watched as her right thumb smoothed over her left one in a self-comforting gesture.

He tried to speak—to tell her what he had realized when he had realized—that word—when he'd heard the harsh, cold sound of the bullet leave the gun. The word that he needed to remember—that he was certain would have regenerative properties when put into the context of their relationship. He opened his mouth to speak. He watched Gillian lean slightly forward—but nothing came out, save his breath, and moments later the ambulance came to a halt in front of the hospital.

Gillian ignored questions of "Who are you, ma'am?" "Are you his wife?" and various other questions hurled at her—she kept her face expressionless, and she kept her eyes on Cal, ignoring their requests, each one more frantic than the last until they finally quit asking. They'd gotten the message; she wasn't leaving. Gillian remained at Cal's side until the doctor, a bald bespectacled man in his late 50s came with the news.

"Good news, Dr. Lightman," He'd said, "You're going to be fine."

The doctor then went into the logistics of precisely how and why but Cal couldn't recall them if asked because his gaze was, once again, fixed on Gillian as she heard the news. cal watched as relief washed over her face—she met his gaze, offered him a small smile and then she turned and began to walk out of the room.

Cal watched as her form retreated—he could no longer see his blood spattering her white shirt—just her fragile posture as she crossed the threshold of his hospital room, her black heels eerily quiet against the white speckled linoleum.

Gillian didn't return to the hospital. As he watched her go, Cal knew she wouldn't—but he couldn't keep a small part of himself from waiting for her anyway.

Zoe and Emily came to see him—Gillian had called them. Zoe's presence felt hollow even as she hugged him with tears in her eyes—even as she placed the back of her fingers against his cheek and whispered "I'm so glad you're alright."

Emily threw her arms around him and he felt his heart catch like it usually did—he held her tightly with his left arm—his uninjured side—and kissed the side of her temple as she sobbed into his shoulder, "I could've lost you, dad." She whispered, over and over and over again as Cal shushed her and whispered back, "You didn't, love," until it became like a prayer and he wasn't speaking to Emily any longer.

Even with Emily's heart beating so close to his own, Cal still felt broken. Zoe and Emily stayed with him for four hours until the doctor came in to explain the conditions of his release from the hospital.

Zoe had begged Cal to stay with her for a few days insisting that he would feel better—that he _needed_ her. Cal knew it wasn't true—he thanked her, hugged Emily tightly, kissed her on the cheek, and then declined.

"Just drop me at my car, Zo." He said, finally, and ignored the look of pain followed quickly by anger that crossed her face. Zoe, despite her wishes to the contrary, obliged and she pulled into the Lightman Group parking lot and shoved the car into park.

Cal avoided her eyes as she spoke, "I _am _glad you're alright." She said. Cal smiled and got out of the car, whispering a thanks and a quick 'love you' to Emily.

Cal shut the door and walked over to his car. Unlocking the door, he felt a stab of pain in his shoulder—ignoring it, he slid into the driver's seat and closed the door, grateful for the way the steel quieted everything. He jammed his key in the ignition and started to turn it, but hesitated. Instead, he put his hands on his steering wheel and laid his forehead against them. He could hear little else but his own breathing and for a moment he was comforted before he felt panic overtake him. Suddenly, he could hear the heavy blood rushing through his veins and he moved to turn the key again, but couldn't. Sighing, he ripped the key out of the ignition—he just couldn't go home and be surrounded thoroughly by himself.

He looked out his front windshield at the Lightman Group building—the grey concrete and glass reaching for the sky which was quickly turning a particularly lovely shade of orange as the sun began to go to bed.

Fighting emotion, Cal exited his car and headed into the building—he would go to his office and fuss over paperwork, open old documents on his computer and rework them, if he really got desperate, he'd work on an outline for his book—and he'd pretend. He'd pretend that everything wasn't falling apart around him, he'd pretend that his shoulder didn't hurt, that his eyes weren't tired and that his heart didn't feel tangled.

He shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked down the hallway to his office—he opened the door and ran his hand across his bookshelf on the way to his chair. Sitting down, he felt his shoulder ache and he squeezed his eyes shut listening to the hum of the quiet building. He recognized the familiar sounds and he tried to single them out as he strained his ears—the whir of the computers, still on in the lab, were the loudest. Listening intently, he heard another sound that seemed all at once familiar and foreign to him—he leant forward slightly trying to find an angle that would allow him to hear better. Finding that his new position could not correctly help him discern precisely what the noise was, he rose from his chair.

When he opened the door to his office, the sound grew slightly more pronounced, and he could tell from which direction it was coming—he started down the hallway, and eventually he found the source.

Standing in front of Gillian's office, he looked through the window and saw that she was hunched over her desk, her face buried in her hands as her body shook lightly in a sullen rhythm. The sky behind her offered a most beautiful backdrop to a sight that nearly stopped his heart.

Pushing her door, which was slightly ajar, open further, Cal slipped inside. Her breath caught in her throat as she sobbed into her hands and the sound nearly hurt his ears—not because of how loud it was, but because of how raw it was.

Cal cleared his throat lightly, and at the sound, Gillian's head shot up and he was at once confronted with her gaze. The tracks down her cheek were black with mascara and her eyes were a most bright shade of red—briefly, Cal thought that she still looked ridiculously beautiful.

Cal watched as surprise passed over her face. She, of course, hadn't expected him to be in the building, let alone in her office watching the emotion slide down her face.

She leaned back into her chair and tilted her head to one side—her face was red in various spots and her eyes were glassy—she swiped at the tracks down her cheek which only caused them to smear more thoroughly.

Struck again by her beauty even in complete sorrow, he exhaled, "Christ."

Using both of her hands, she ran her hands under her eyes and raised her eyebrows at him.

"Darling…" Cal said, his voice gentle.

At his tone, her tears began to well up again, and she spoke around them, her voice taut, "Don't." She said, waving her hand in the air, "Don't say it like that." She finished, her voice breaking on the last word so that it sounded as though she had choked it out.

Cal stepped toward her, his eyes full and heavy as he watched her cry. He reached the edge of her desk and then he stopped, his gaze still fixed on her—he pursed his lips and tilted his head, allowing her to read him.

Gillian sighed through her tears and she opened her mouth to speak and Cal felt himself suck in an anticipatory breath as he waited for her words. She let the silence hover for a minute as she tried to calm her tears. She looked at the blood, now dried, still on her shirt—his blood, and he saw her cringe slightly. Finally, she took a steadying breath and spoke, "You can't keep doing this to me, Cal," She said, her voice quiet.

Suddenly, Cal was in front of her chair and he pulled her up from her seated position and enveloped her in a hug. Gripping her tightly to him, he clutched at her hair—Cal knew, immediately, that she wasn't simply talking about his life or death stunt today. He smoothed his hand over her hair again and again as she gripped the shirt on his back, her fingers cold on his skin even through the shirt.

"I know," He whispered softly around the lump that had formed in his throat.

He could feel her tears on his neck, "I can't." She said, and Cal felt her try to pull away. He tightened his grip on her, "I can't," She said again until it became a recitation—

Cal tugged on her hair gently, and her face fell away from his neck—she reluctantly met his gaze—"Hey." He said as he brushed his thumb along her jaw line. "Everything's just been so fucked up." He said, whispering, trying to quell his own impending tears.

The timbre of his voice made her eyes well again, and she cursed her sensitivity as she bit her lip in an attempt to regain her composure. She nodded slightly. Seeing the emotion wash over her features, Cal pulled her back into his embrace—he pressed his lips against her hair and felt her warmth seep into his bones and his physical pain was forgotten as he felt himself surrounded by Gillian.

Cal's face grew serious, then, in the growing dark of Gillian's office. Leaning slightly down, Cal pressed his lips to her ear—through the curtain of her hair, Gillian felt his hot breath as she heard his voice curl around a muffled word. He whispered it over and over again—a specific type of confession, and through the window he watched with wonder as the sun disappeared behind the horizon—and he marveled at the feel of Gillian against him, at the way his blood rushed through his veins, at the breaths they drew together, still, after all these years—at all the sins for which he desperately needed to atone.

* * *

_FIN_

_A/N: Thank you all for reading this - your wonderful reviews were completely amazing; this story is really close to my heart for some reason, and I thank you for the time you spent reading, for the journey you took with me- for the beautiful words you sent my way. It means the world._

_Every time I got a review for this story, it made my heart smile. And for those of you over on Twitter (you know who you are) who have expressed so much love for this story (in ways that just blow my mind and humble me beyond words): thank you, thank you, thank you._

_I can only hope the end did justice to the wonderful things you had to say about this story throughout.  
_

_Finally, I'd just like to point out: I totally tricked you into reading a song-fic! _


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